This week on the Gumbee blog, we have the quite brilliant (which often means genially insane in my experience) Marcus Pailing. Marcus writes much harder fantasy than I do, and isn’t averse to a bit of gore. So, let’s see what he thinks of the softer side of fantasy…..

(Oh, and incidentally, I was indulging my romantic side when I added the tags for peril, conflict, fight scenes and pursuit… Will)

“Romance, eh?” I thought as the suggestion was put forward. My esteemed Gumbee colleague, Will MacMillan Jones, had recently returned from the Festival of Romance, and was all afire with passion … or such was the impression he gave. It was his suggestion, with a fast-beating heart and hot cheeks, that we turn our attention to the theme, to see whether the rest of us could also demonstrate our forays into the realms of romance.

I don’t consider myself much practised in the writing of romance. Generally I’m more of a swords and spears fantasy writer (and I don’t mean that euphemistically). When I was growing up, fantasy novels either steered clear of ‘lurve’ (and often eschewed females entirely, or kept them as very minor characters); or else treated women as lusty, heaving-bosomed bit-players, planted in the stories to demonstrate the equally lusty masculinity of the over-muscled protagonist.

Now, I appreciate a heaving bosom as much as the next man, but I never wanted to have female characters who were mere eye-candy. At the same time, I never set out to write ‘romance’. I did introduce it to my novels, however; but in small measures only – my main characters do meet women, marry them, and have children with them, after all.

This changed somewhat when I wrote The Withered Rose, because the entire novel is basically a romantic tragedy. So when the idea for this theme came up, I turned to that novel to see what I had written.

In order to explain the following extract, here’s some context. There are two friends, both called Atela. One of them is locked in a marriage that is starting to fall apart, having had a very positive start; the other has recently married herself, and is blissfully happy. Kieldrou, the son of the count of Trall, is younger than both the women, but has dazzled them with his tales of adventure – he has recently returned from a journey in the exotic lands of Azzawa. He has made it clear already that he finds them both attractive, and while he hasn’t exactly attempted to seduce either of them, he has managed in the past to trick them into giving him kisses.

“My ladies, I said that I had gifts for you both.”

The two Atelas sat in a window seat, having moved away from their husbands after a while of conversation. Now Kieldrou stood before them again. He had left his audience, where Derian was now entertaining the folk with more tales of their time in the east. Kieldrou looked a little flushed, but it was not from drink; more likely it was the excitement of having had an audience hanging on his every word.

“I think you should consider becoming a player,” teased Short Atela. “Entertaining the masses with your tall tales.”

“I swear, on my honour, that I exaggerate nothing,” he said, sounding only a little hurt. “I told nothing but the truth. Although perhaps it is better that you did not stay to hear me tell of the thieves of Ukhara, or you really would not believe me.”

“I noticed,” he said softly. “But it does not matter. I do not seek to gain favour with mere stories.”

Atela raised an eyebrow. “And how would you gain favour?”

“With gifts.”

At that, Kieldrou held out two small wooden boxes, handing one to Atela, and the other to the younger woman. “I found them in Ukhara, and thought of you both.”

“After three years?” laughed Short Atela. “Or did you buy them, and then think of us when you got here?”

Kieldrou frowned, and stepped back slightly, giving them a little space as they opened the boxes.

Atela gasped. Lying inside her box was a small white rose, exquisitely carved from the purest ivory – a rare and expensive luxury in Western Gilderaen – and turned into a brooch. It was a perfect reproduction of the flower, even in miniature. Short Atela was similarly overcome: hers was a tulip, also most delicately carved.

“I recalled the silver rose I gave you at your wedding,” Kieldrou said, his voice faltering a little. There was none of his usual humour in his voice. “I remembered how much you liked it, which is why I thought of you when I saw it. For you, my lady,” he continued, turning to Short Atela, “I wanted something of similar beauty, to match yours.” For the first time in Atela’s memory, he appeared to blush a little.

“It is beautiful,” Atela murmured. “Truly a marvel, and I do thank you. What favour do you wish for in return, then? Are you hungry for another kiss?”

She said it quickly, laughing, and without thinking. She certainly did not expect the reaction she got. Kieldrou’s brows creased in a frown, and he muttered a denial, before turning on his heel and striding away.

The two Atelas looked at each other, puzzled. “Did I offend him?” Atela asked, and the other shrugged. “Oh, Hogra, I fear I have. We forget he is a young man, now, no longer a high-spirited boy.”

“We must apologise,” Short Atela said. “Where has he gone?”

They scanned the hall, but he was nowhere to be seen. They figured he must have left, and they stood up to follow him. Yet they had to be discreet: it would not be seemly for them to go chasing after him. As they walked through the hall they were accosted again by Elnir and Sturgar, and were forced to stay in conversation for some time. When they escaped, they were then trapped by the earl and countess of Mendivar. It was a good half hour before they managed to get out of the hall.

“Let us try the garden,” Short Atela suggested. Atela nodded, and they hurried along the empty corridors towards the door that led out to the cloister.

It was late, and the garden was lit by a pale moon, throwing dark shadows yet illuminating the rows of flowers in the middle of the garden. He was there, walking alone between the bushes. He turned when they called his name, stiffening when he saw who it was that disturbed him.

“Kieldrou, I am truly sorry,” Atela said. “I was teasing, forgetting you are no longer a boy. It was wrong of me, and you did not deserve it.”

“I, also,” Short Atela admitted. “They are truly beautiful gifts, and you must have thought hard about them. We do not deserve your kindness, nor your thoughts of us while so far from home.”

Kieldrou gave a wan smile. “No, my ladies, you deserved no less. I can easily forgive your teasing. It is my fault: of course I expected nothing in return, and there was no call for me to take umbrage. Besides, you are both married women. Perhaps I should not have made you those gifts at all.”

“But they are most gratefully received,” Atela said. “I, for one, will treasure mine.” Beside her, Short Atela nodded in agreement.

“I am glad,” he said. “I have no expectations, but beauty and friendship should be rewarded.”

Atela felt a tightness in her chest, and she never knew what made her do as she then did. “Indeed they should,” she replied, and she stood on her toes to plant a light kiss on his lips. She felt his arm reach round her shoulder and she stepped back quickly. She remembered the strength of those arms three years before, and dreaded what she would do if she felt them around her again. “I’m sorry,” she breathed. “That is all I can give.”

He smiled sadly. “I understand, my lady.” He bowed to them both, and turned to go.

“Kieldrou.”

He turned back, and looked at Short Atela, who stepped forward, biting her lip. “I’m sorry,” she said, “that I cannot offer you even a kiss. I … it would not …”

“Thank you, my lady,” he said, cutting her off to save her the embarrassment of stumbling through a needless explanation. “You are happily married, I know. As I said, I have no expectations. The gifts were gifts, and deserve no payment. Although I shall treasure your return gift,” he added to Atela, briefly touching his lips.

Then he was gone.

“Oh, Hogra!” Atela groaned. “What did I do?”

“Nothing wrong,” Short Atela said, firmly. “It was a friendly gesture, that is all. Although it was wise to step back when you did.” She laughed, but it was a brittle laugh.

“I almost lost myself. What was I thinking? I am eleven years older than he, and married.”

“Locked in a withering marriage,” Short Atela shot back. “Let us be honest about it. Yet you must not do any more. I would advise you – both of us – not to seek out that young man again. You’ve had ‘the talk’ from my mother.”

Atela started. “How did you know?”

Short Atela laughed. “I know my mother. You were clearly unhappy at the time of my betrothal, and you sought a private meeting with her. She never told me what you discussed, but I am not stupid. I know her, and I have seen enough other women seek her advice. It takes no great imagination to guess what advice my poor, dear, beautiful and unsociable mother could give.

“Come on,” she went on, taking Atela’s hand in hers. “Let us get back to the hall and put the Trallian from our minds.”

This is the point in the novel where Atela – the one who this time kissed Kieldrou – begins to harbour romantic thoughts about the young man. Later in the novel these are to cause a lot of pain to a large number of people … but to say more here would rather spoil the story.

Hello, good evening, and welcome from a passing lunatic who has managed to hack MTM’s carefully managed blog: to talk about luuuurrrve.

Sadly there comes a point in every fantasy novel where two characters have to gaze into each other’s eyes: even at the expense of allowing several more orcs to extend their corporeal existence, or letting the expensive manufactured Ultimate Weapon of Doom to get a bit cobwebby instead of knocking the Dark Lord off his Throne, or even failing to collect the magical ring from its appointed hiding place.

It’s called Romance, and mostly we prefer to poke the subject with a sharp stick from a safe distance. Here’s the amazing Jim Webster and his take on the subject.

Romance?
Well obviously I’m both Male and English and therefore am automatically disqualified from not merely writing romance but of even understanding the concept.
Problem is one of the characters whose life I have chronicled is male but isn’t English and being a Toelar Roofrunner, romance is very much an integral part of his existence.
So I’ve tended to be guided in these things by him. The following passage comes from ‘The Cartographer’s Apprentice’, available from all good ebook stores. Amazon have it for 7pp at http://www.amazon.co.uk/The-Cartographers-Apprentice-Jim-Webster-ebook/dp/B00ECZIM4A/

“Allonai took over the organisation of their evening meal. She brooked no interruptions, but instead talked long with the cook. She then announced that the meal would be served in her suite rather than in the main dining room.
She showed Benor upstairs and led him into her audience room. It had a large picture window which allowed you to look down Supplicant’s Hill and to the east. There were two doors off, one of which, slightly ajar, revealed a bath, the other led through to a bedroom. The centrepiece of the audience room was the dining table. Benor had never seen one like it. From above the shape was of an exaggerated violin, with the two diners sitting facing each other in the opposing waists. Scattered round the room on various tables were sundry discarded outer garments, a light crossbow, and a selection of shoes. He pointed at the crossbow, “An interesting accessory, does it go with any particular outfit?”
“As I said, I was on a hunting trip; it is a perfectly normal lady’s crossbow, suitable for light game, even dart if you get close enough.”
There were a couple of books on the table next to the crossbow, he scanned their titles. “A lifetime of wasted versifying.”
“Yes, the collected works of Quoloen the Indelicate. If I confess to a liking for poetry will you still talk to me?”
Before Benor could reply, a stream of waiters entered, carrying trays loaded with little dishes, which they arrayed on the table in what was obviously a specified pattern. By each dish was a small wine glass. Finally the entire table was full and Allonai chivvied the last of the staff out of the door and closed it firmly. Then she turned to Benor, curtseyed and announced, “The thirty-seven customary dishes, each with its own wine. Would sir care to take his place at the table?”
With this she ushered him to the table, saw him seated, and then sat facing him. “Have you ever eaten the thirty-seven dishes?”
Rather shamefaced, Benor admitted he hadn’t. Allonai launched into an explanation. “The dishes are placed in order, the first you find in front of you, the others lead off to the left, curl round the table edge and work their way back so both the second and the thirty-sixth dishes are next to your place. So the dishes on your left hand side are yours, the dishes on your right hand side are mine.”
Benor surveyed the scene, each dish might hold two mouthfuls, but then there were thirty seven of them. The wine glasses did not hold a mouthful. Once or twice in the past he had pondered investing in the thirty-seven dishes as a way of wooing a particularly difficult lady, but had never been able to afford the initial investment.
The first dish was a seafood tagine, salty-sour and rather good. The wine was, to his surprise, a sip of strong cider, which turned out to complement the tagine perfectly. Allonai expressed her approval and they both tried the next dish, a clam linguine. For a Toelar man, the dash of pepper was not quite enough to be exciting but still, he felt he approved. Happy that the food seemed to be excellent, Benor relaxed. As he sipped the second wine, a slightly sweet white, probably locally grown, he asked Allonai “So what are your plans when we get this matter dealt with?”
Gently he guided the conversation. He had long ago learned that the ‘good conversationalist’ said very little and merely kept their companion talking. Over the course of the succeeding dishes Benor learned about Allonai’s childhood, the stresses of growing up as a young woman in Seramis, tales of bitter infighting within the family over her father’s estate, and something of her hopes for the future. Deep fried crispy caterpillars were followed by thin slices of horrocks’ testicle, flash-fried in nut oil, each with the appropriate wine. Finally, as he finished a mouthful of honey berries sprinkled with ginger he noticed Allonai was watching him, her expression somehow forlorn. Without really thinking about the consequences, he leaned across and kissed her.”

And there it ends, I’m working on the principle that all my readers are grown up and know all the technical details and don’t need me to provide a user’s manual.

Anyone following the Gumbees will have noticed that recently, we’re all so busy writing our books that nothing much is going on here. That’s why I thought it might be a smart move to link to any interviews that members of the guild do.

So without more ado, here’s a link to today’s with one of our more successful writers, Will MacMillan Jones.

When this topic was first discussed a while back, I joked that I could use a scene where Jared is chasing himself round a garden. It’s a genuine scene, and not quite as strange as it sounds. Because I’m a woman of my word, I’m going to include said scene in this. It technically does demonstrate pursuit, just not in the normal way of someone chasing someone else on foot or in a vehicle. This is more of a hunt, as are most of my scenes of this nature. This particular example comes from Proving Negatives and shows Jared following a scent that he is sure will lead him to a killer, and he is equally certain that he is actually the killer. So he is effectively chasing himself around a garden. By this point I’m sure none of you expect something normal from me. Here we go.

The stench was unbearable as I neared it, and it seemed to be coming from the surrounding carpet rather than the body. It moved away from the body and out through the back door, like a trail inviting me on. It felt extremely foolish to follow it, as though I were the naïve woman in a typical scary film, calling out into the darkness and chasing after chaos. But I’m a vampire, and this was a trail of decay. I had an image of a zombie in my mind, one rotting all over the place and leading similar dead creatures onto the next life. And then I remembered what a true raised corpse was like, and that I am friends with one, and the image faded. I was back in the doorway of my cousin’s house, following a trail into the night.

I needn’t have worried, because the trail led to the back of the garden and then grew weak as it met weeds and the hideout of a hedgehog. As I tried to get a closer look at this, I disrupted the wildlife and a series of animals took off into the night. I hesitated as I realised that the scent led over the fence. Well, it would have been too easy to find the cause lying in a clump of weeds. I knew, deep down, that this wasn’t going to happen. Not because it was easy, but because the attacker was stumbling around in the dark looking for himself. This trail was obviously being used in the same way as the flowery fog back at our house. My true fear was that the trail would grow so weak that what it was here to cover would become uncovered, and that it would be me – my scent – And would loop around and lead back to the road where I had woken. I thought this, but couldn’t quite bring myself to truly believe it. I was desperate for any other answer. Because I didn’t do this. I couldn’t have, it was absurd. And yet I couldn’t prove I hadn’t done it. How can you prove a negative? The most I could do was prove that someone else did do it.

Perhaps now I should try a more typical scene to demonstrate my…uh…talents. The whole of my first novel, Plead Insanity, features this particular topic. The novel is basically about Jared being chased by the police or by his fellow vampires. He also involves himself in a form of chase, though again it’s more like a hunt, as he tries to locate various hostages whilst he himself is still being chased. So without further ado, here is my full novel! Okay, I’m joking. I’ve taken three sections that show Jared’s escape from prison and the police pursuing him. The first portion is his initial escape, shown below.

The fall was over a lot quicker than expected. One minute there was air rushing past me, the next I had landed crouched on the ground and was just feet from the nearest officers. If they hadn’t been so stunned by my sudden appearance then they would’ve had me, but luckily I recovered first and ran from the prison. I ran until my surroundings were blurred and the only sound I could hear was the wind in my ears. I made the mistake of looking back and ended up stumbling. In that moment I was able to register that I was indeed being chased and that they had also closed the gap between us when I tripped. I regained momentum and ran flat out until I reached a large wall that presumably surrounded the entire prison. I fought my body not to slow and ended up running headlong through the wall. My vision burst into stars from the impact so I closed my eyes and used my other senses to keep running. I had managed to run onto another grassy area. I could feel it underfoot, but unlike the grass in the prison grounds this was long and overgrown and harder to run flat out on.

I slowed accordingly but didn’t stop running. There were distant shouts and orders back at the prison. They seemed to have stopped some feet back, probably near the Jared-shaped hole in the wall.

A while later and the only sounds were birds and other wildlife. I opened my eyes a fraction to see if my vision was back and found that I was seconds from crashing headfirst into a tree. I veered off course and slowed down some more. Only then did I look back for my pursuers. They were nowhere in sight. I looked towards a vast gathering of trees and changed direction towards them. Once far enough among them that the field was no longer visible, I grabbed the branch of a nearby tree and pulled myself up.

So far, so good, as Jared is able to remain away from the police and seems to have the advantage of speed on his side. He is soon joined by his father, which can only be a good thing, right? They not-so-wisely seek refuge in a small place not far from the prison, where the police soon come calling. The following shows Jared and Ezra’s escape from their place of apparent safety.

Ezra mumbled a quick “follow me” and jumped onto a small desk and leapt through the ceiling. The noise from downstairs was so loud that I didn’t bother thinking about it and just followed his lead. Once on the roof I had a moment to register that this was the one place that the cops couldn’t see from the ground, then Ezra pulled me into a crouching position. I really don’t have the hang of the whole master-criminal thing yet.

I took Ezra’s lead without being asked this time and started searching for the best escape route. This meant relying on sense of smell and hearing to pinpoint each policeman, as there was no way to look for them without them spotting us.

The men were widely spread around the bungalow but there was a weak link near the sound of flowing water.

“We’ll need to jump into the river,” I hissed at Ezra. “If we swim away then we’re more likely to lose them then on foot. Chances are they have enough squad cars to run us down otherwise.”

He looked at me for a brief moment with a smile playing his lips before answering. “I agree. The conditions of the water will drain what little life we both have. Whilst it’s happening we will be slowed down, but once dead we’ll be able to swim underwater until we lose them.”

I wasn’t very comfortable with the fact that we would be ‘dying’ once more, but ignored that small factor and nodded. He took it as the approval it was and then motioned for me to follow once more before plummeting over the edge of the roof. I followed in a heartbeat and was soon submerged in icy water for the second time.

Ezra was right; the water started draining me immediately. It hardly had time to slow me down before I was back to being the walking dead. Or should I say swimming dead? Okay, no time for attempted humour, the police had somehow noticed two men jumping off the roof and were shooting into the water as we swam. I was really getting sick of being fired at.

I spent the next half hour watching Ezra swimming in front of me. He swam so gracefully, it didn’t really match his personality. He managed to move along effortlessly with just his feet lightly propelling him forwards, almost like a mermaid. As effortless as it looked, he must’ve been putting a lot of power into it as I could barely keep up. I tried to master the same technique as it caused minimal ripples in the water, meaning that it was harder for the police to spot, but all I managed to do was slow us down and miss getting shot by a fraction.

After a few more miles Ezra stopped swimming and turned to face me. He spoke with a stream of bubbles issuing from his mouth but I was still able to make the words out clearly; “Is it safe to resurface?” I found it strange that he was asking me, but searched for the answer nevertheless. I could hear that there was somebody walking along just feet from us, but other than that there was just the sound of leaves and grass being swayed by a light wind. I took a moment to be certain that the person was walking away and to ponder in amazement that I was able to hear everything so clearly even through the murky water.

Once the sounds of the walker had disappeared I swam cautiously to the water’s surface and peered out. We were surrounded by a gravelly path and grass but there were no people about. I swam to the edge of the river and climbed out onto the embankment. Seconds later Ezra was straightening up beside me.

So they’ve made it this far without any real mishap (unless you count being killed, shot at, and all the rest of it as a form of mishap, that is). Now all they have to do is keep moving and go into hiding. What am I saying? Vampires don’t hide from humans, or at least these vampires don’t. But short of fighting the entire human race, what can Jared to do? Ah yes, fake his own death. Is it the norm for scenes of this nature to end in such a way? Generally there might be a fight to the death, or even a touch of suicide to keep from the reach of those who have been so desperately avoided. I guess this is kind of a mixture of those. And whose idea was it? Ezra’s. I’m sure Jared would now disagree with my earlier claim of their reunion being a good thing. Below is the result of this particular perusal. You’ll have to read the novel if you want to know more. [Insert evil cackle here].

By the time we had located a working payphone the sun had risen and people were passing us on the streets to get to work and school. Ezra was the one to step inside and make the phone call as I refused to turn myself in to the police. I walked away so that I could no longer hear him talking low and urgently in the phone booth, which put me around the corner at the end of the street he was on. Even then, if I concentrated, I could still hear the conversation. I tried not to concentrate but it seemed I couldn’t help myself. Sighing, I continued walking away.

Moments later Ezra had caught up with me and seemed to be having some kind of internal struggle. In the end he gave up and turned to me.

“I’ll be staying in a B&B near the graveyard. I would stay with you to see if this works well but I have every faith that you’ll pull it off, and it wouldn’t do us any good at all if I jumped in to try and spare you some of the agony.” He patted me gruffly on the shoulder. Manly. “Whatever you may think, I would jump in to stop it if I could. I really don’t enjoy seeing you in pain. Humiliating yourself, sure, but no parent wants to see their children suffer.”

Strangely, I believed him, and I swear that I saw the glistening of unshed tears in his eyes before he turned away to walk back along the path we had just come down.

I continued walking along the street until I found the bench that Ezra had told the police I was sitting on. I sat down and contemplated whether buying a newspaper to read would be too cliché. In the end I decided not to bother and just made it look as though I was enjoying the wintry sun. People shivered as they passed. How did that man and his daughter manage to sleep undressed at this time of year? Most humans would freeze.

Buttoning up the jacket I had thankfully not ruined too much when escaping prison I sat back and tried to act more human in such temperatures.

I knew when the police were coming because the sirens split through the quiet street. I never really understand why the police will always insist on putting sirens on to warn criminals away. If it’s to get through traffic then why don’t they just turn the lights on?

I opened my eyes a fraction to see that people on the streets were looking around for the source of the noise, but none of them were staring at me. I’m obviously less famous than I thought. Can’t say I’m disappointed really.

The police arrived with many squealing brakes and shouts not to move. I warily put my hands up, palms out, so that they could see I wasn’t carrying any offensive weapon. Then I remembered that I was supposed to provoke them into shooting me. Looking around, I couldn’t see anywhere to make a clean break for it without them hesitating due to civilians.

In the end I just decided to try and cause them as much pain as they were about to cause me. I grabbed hold of the nearest officer and hit him with enough strength to make him pass out. When I felt an arm reach out to cuff me I lashed out and winded him. It only took a couple more blows before the first shot rang out. It grazed my arm but somehow didn’t seem like a killing blow. If I played dead right then I think they would consider doing a post-mortem just because it would be such a pathetic wound to die from.

I managed to hurt a few more of the officers before somebody tried to shoot again. This time I looked around in time to see the barrel of the gun directed towards my head just moments before the trigger was pulled. There was no way I was letting that bullet hit its target. A chest wound would be bad enough. I really didn’t fancy having to heal my brain and skull. It’d probably turn me as crazy as the punishment that Ezra mentioned would.

I thought about just grabbing hold of one of the guns and “accidentally” shooting it point blank into my own chest but decided against it. As tiresome as it was to keep fighting, it was nice to be doing something to delay the excruciating pain of having my life drained.

It didn’t take long before somebody tried for the killing blow once more. Unfortunately it was a seemingly inexperienced officer who tried it this time, and his aim was way off, spiralling towards the chest of another policeman. Not thinking, I dove in front of the man it was heading for and felt it make contact with my heart.

Hmm…. I notice a couple of my esteemed colleagues mentioning car chases. So here I am with a book which largely features car chases because the hero is a getaway driver thinking ‘hmm… do I have a bit that is not a car chase?” My main character is absolutely yellow so he’s running fast, in the opposite direction to danger, most of the time, especially in the first book. So yeh, pursuit. Pretty much the whole book including a nice one on foot… but then, with all that talk of car chases I thought I might as well. Spot the petrol head.

This is where I should also fess up he lives in a parallel reality where the cars are all James Bond cars and they fly and they’re called Snurds. And I want one. Yeh.

To set the scene. The Pan of Hamgee, our hero, drives for a gang of bank robbers. They give him some junk items which are of religious significance and Lord Vernon, K’Barth’s despot ruler, wants them. Some members of the security forces have questioned The Pan about it, luckily, not too closely because while his getaway antics are famous, nobody knows it’s him. After their next robbery, things change.

Because there’s a lot of boring information to jemmy into my books along the way, I try to impart it while my characters are doing something interesting. I think this is probably quite a good example of my attempts to dump facts on the reader subliminally, so to speak, while they’re too busy being interested in something else.

The robbery went without a hitch, despite all The Pan’s fears, and the Grongolian police were even dopier and easier to shake off than usual. Maybe that was what aroused his suspicions. Glancing behind him he thought he caught sight of another snurd cutting swiftly through the traffic. It might be somebody in a hurry, he told himself. There was no reason for anyone to be following them, they had thrown off all their pursuers, but The Pan wanted to be sure. They were travelling through one of the newer parts of the city, which was built in a grid formation, so he turned swiftly down a side road and zigzagged onto a parallel street.

Behind him, in the distance, was a glint of light as a distant snurd pulled out of a similar side street and continued to follow them. It was black, with the same anonymous dark tinted windows as the MK II. The Pan pressed the button labelled ‘wings’, waited while the MK II transmogrified itself into aviator mode and took off. Almost a mile back, half concealed by the traffic in between them, he could make out the shape of the other snurd taking off, too. He increased his speed, flipped up another side street and continued on his way. Behind him the other snurd mirrored his manoeuvre.

“The robbery’s over. What are you doing?” demanded Big Merv.

“Trying to spill himself some loot,” said Frank. The Pan sighed. He was used to Frank’s digs. The two of them didn’t get along. In fact he suspected that, left to his own devices, nothing would please Frank more than cutting his throat.

“We’re being followed,” he said.

Frank turned round in his seat and surveyed the road behind.

“I don’t see nothing,” he said.

“That’s why you rob and I drive,” muttered The Pan.

“What did you say? You little piece of—”

“Shut it!” warned Big Merv.

Frank and Harry fastened their seat belts – any chance of a chase and they knew the drill. They craned their heads through the back windows. The Pan waited while Big Merv scrutinised the view in his wing mirror. He was glad that his boss was suspicious, not to mention cautious, enough to check.

“’What’s it look like?”

“Black, low slung, fast. It’s not a shape I’m familiar with.”

“Nah,” said Big Merv. “Me neither. Tinted windows though, like ours. If it ain’t another gang, it must be Grongolian. Either way, I reckon it’s bad news. Lose it.”

Far away in another dimension of space and time the pursuing snurd was a 1955 Mercedes prototype, the Uhlenhaut, with gull-wing doors.

The MK II morphed back into aviator mode and doubled its speed in two stomach-lurching seconds, as The Pan floored the accelerator. He flew upwards, skimming the rooftops of the adjacent buildings and down into the next street in the opposite direction. Slowing up he checked his surroundings carefully.

Nothing there.

Surely it wasn’t going to be this easy?

No.

The Pan shuddered. He hadn’t lied to Big Merv, the shape of the black snurd was unfamiliar, but it did fit with rumours he had heard. The kinds of tales no getaway man would want to dwell on. Stories of desperate flights, of the finest drivers relentlessly pursued through the darkness of the night and downed in a boiling fireball. Stories of an invincible shape, a legend, a ghost, a mechanical banshee that came screaming out of nowhere to do its lethal work and disappeared as quickly. It was called the Interceptor and nobody was sure it existed but then hardly anyone who’d seen it had lived to describe their experience – certainly none of the people who had been chased. If the anonymous black snurd was the Interceptor, The Pan realised he and his colleagues were as good as dead and there was nothing he could do about it.

He decelerated to normal speed, landed among the rest of the terrestrial traffic and carried on as if he and the Mervinettes were a group of normal people going about their business.

They had gone almost a mile and there was still no sign of their pursuer.

“Have you got rid of it?” asked Big Merv.

Whoever was driving that black snurd had been very subtle and The Pan suspected it was still out there. He took his hands off the wheel to make a ‘search me’ gesture.

“I don’t know,” he said. “It’s not like the others. He knows what he’s doing.”

They were driving along one of the main thoroughfares of the city and as usual, it was busy. The Pan was sick with nerves. If anything happened, the presence of other traffic gave him little room to manoeuvre and although he could remain inconspicuous more easily with other snurds around him, so could his pursuer. He turned into a side road and pulled onto a narrower, less frequented street one block over that ran parallel to the one they had been on.

They were going in the wrong direction and he would need to turn around, but he wanted to be doubly sure they had lost their tail before he did. Although he could see nothing, he had an instinctive belief they were still being followed. He had learned to trust his instincts but as yet for his fellow Mervinettes – especially Frank and Harry – trust was still a work in progress. They were getting restless; he was going to have to turn round soon or they were going to get irritated and Big Merv was going to vent his irritation on him the only way he knew how – physically. Big Merv never hit him hard, but he still didn’t want to get thumped. If anyone was behind them he would have to draw them into the open by going so fast they had to concentrate on keeping up rather than concealing themselves. He accelerated, and as he did so the black snurd pulled out of a side alley ahead of them, turned towards them and stopped in the middle of the street. The Pan screeched to a halt, engaging reverse. As the MK II’s backing lights came on, a flotilla of police snurds pulled out side roads and garages up and down the street, behind him, about 40 of them.

“Arnold!” said Big Merv. “It’s a trap.”

“Mmm,” said The Pan, selecting first gear.

We join the driver of the black snurd for an instant just to find out who he is – I’ve edited that out for brevity – and we rejoin The Pan just as his colleagues are jumping to the inevitable – though wrong – conclusion.

“You little scrote! You’ve set us up!” shouted Frank, and Big Merv glared at The Pan.

“Well? Is that what’s got into you? Have you been disloyal to me?” His voice had an ominous tone and The Pan realised, with horror, that he was close to believing Frank.

“No, no I promise,” he whimpered.

“If you have, we’re going to be paying a visit to the river later,” Big Merv continued, “It’ll be just like old times.”

The engine of the black snurd revved and with his foot on the clutch The Pan revved the MK II back.

“Yes,” said The Pan distractedly before realising the gravity of his admission, “I mean no,” he corrected himself quickly, “not on purpose.” He turned to his boss who was glaring at him. The antennae were moving but only just, and they were standing up straight, which meant Big Merv was on the brink of blind rage. The Pan glanced down the street at the black snurd, which was still revving its engine aggressively and at the same time, sneaked a look behind at the ranks of police snurds blocking his retreat. This was not a good time for Big Merv to lose his rag, The Pan needed him to be able to listen, answer questions and more to the point think. Better make the explanation fast.

“Remember that stuff you gave me? The junk?”

“Yer,” said Merv, “we remember.”

“It might have belonged to Lord Vernon,” said The Pan. He said it quickly in order to lessen the impact.

“What?” bellowed Big Merv.

“Some Grongles came to the Parrot and they said it belonged to—”

“I heard you the first time, you twonk,” shouted Big Merv, “Why in Arnold’s name didn’t you tell me?”

“I didn’t think it mattered,” lied The Pan who’d spent several wakeful nights wondering how on earth he could bring the subject up and had chickened out.

“You’re not here to think, I THINK, you drive. Anything, ANYTHING you hear, you tell me, right?”

“Yes,” squeaked The Pan. The snurd ahead of them revved its engine again and he glanced nervously about him, checking his escape options.

“Can you get us out of this?” asked Big Merv.

“I don’t know,” said The Pan. He could feel himself going white, he was shivering with fright, cold sweat running down the side of his face. A big part of his job was appearing to be in control, in this instance it was vital. It would be testing enough coping with the chase, let alone if the gang lost their confidence and he had to contend with any back seat driving. He smiled, with what he hoped was a devil-may-care demeanour, rather than the rictus grimace that would more truly reflect the way he felt. “I’ll give it my best shot.”

“You’d better,” said Big Merv, “an’ if you don’t, they won’t catch you alive because I’ll kill you myself. You get me?”

“Oh yes,” muttered The Pan, “I get you.”

He checked the MK II was still in gear and pressed the accelerator pedal as far down as it would go. As he did so, the driver of the black snurd in front of them did the same thing and they hurtled towards each other. The two snurds were on a collision course. The Pan moved the MK II left and the Interceptor moved right. He swung the MK II back to the right and the Interceptor moved left.

“What are you doing you great plank?” shouted Big Merv. “I said get us out, not take him out.”

It was Lord Vernon against him, it had to be. It was a replay of that whole sidestepping incident again, only on wheels. He abandoned any effort to avoid contact, selected aviator mode and carried on accelerating. The Interceptor was yards away now but The Pan was going fast enough to take off. Both snurds left the ground at the same time. As The Pan saw the front of his opponent’s vehicle looming ahead, he moved the MK II sharply upwards and as the other snurd followed, he yanked the wheel downwards. The underside of the Interceptor filled the windscreen, blotting out the light, and there was a bump as it, too, moved lower and clipped the roof of Big Merv’s snurd. The MK II hit the ground with a massive crash and bounced into the air.

“If you don’t shut up the suspension’s going to be the least of your worries,” said The Pan, who was beginning to feel more in control, and therefore at liberty to be lippy, “this is going to be difficult enough.”

The police snurds didn’t follow, they were pursued solely by the black snurd and The Pan could only view this as a bad sign. It was the first piece of Grongolian technology he had seen which measured up to the MK II, more than measured up. The Pan couldn’t match the acceleration of the Interceptor and after ten minutes it was as close as ever. After fifteen minutes it tried to ram them and it was only by jinking sharply to the right that The Pan was able to avoid contact. Instead of passing them and cutting them off, it hung back waiting for an opportunity to repeat the manoeuvre. Big Merv was scared and reacted the only way he knew how, by hiding his fear behind a façade of anger. The Pan could forgive him that – nobody was perfect and on the few occasions it happened, he saw it as a bond, a tiny patch of common ground in the vast desert between them.

“I thought you could drive,” Big Merv growled.

“I can and you know it,” The Pan raised his hands and shrugged, “unfortunately, so can he.”

“Don’t get arsy with me you wimp, just get us out of this,” shouted Big Merv, “NOW!”

The Interceptor fired a snurd-to-snurd missile. The Pan wove in and out of lamp posts, buildings, chimneys and trees with the missile in hot pursuit until, finally, he managed to corner so sharply it continued onwards and exploded harmlessly against the side of a nearby office block. Having failed to obliterate its quarry the Interceptor reappeared and made another attempt to ram them. At last The Pan could see a way out, but it wasn’t one Big Merv was going to like.

“I think I can lose him,” he said, “but the MK II—”

“Just do it,” shouted Big Merv, “and for Arnold’s sake get a move on before you make me throw up, you spotty little Herbert. I have some pride, unlike you, so don’t make me humiliate myself in front of the boys here because if I do, YOU will be valeting this vehicle from top to bottom. Got it?”

“Merv,” began The Pan, wearily, oops too wearily, “sir,” he added quickly, “you know my aim here is to keep us alive, not to make you ill. Concentrate on looking straight ahead, or the view out of the window or something. If it’s that bad, there’s always a plastic bag in the glove compartment.”

Ahead of them was the financial district of Ning Dang Po, complete with skyscrapers. The Pan, hotly pursued by the Interceptor, skimmed over the parapet of the Quaarl Futures Building. He flew low over the roof garden full of resting traders in a selection of bizarre striped and coloured blazers, who scattered in all directions, flattening themselves to the green plastic lawn. As the MK II swooped over them and reached the parapet on the other side, The Pan yanked at the wheel. The bonnet dipped and the front bumper clipped the stonework with a loud thud. The impact flipped the MK II upside down and immediately, The Pan accelerated. As Big Merv’s snurd had somersaulted its back bumper had hit the bottom of the Interceptor and thrown it forward causing the driver to lose control for a few precious seconds. Not long, but enough time for The Pan to fly away as fast as he could. After a minute or two he realised he was still flying upside down.

He righted the MK II and descended swiftly into the nearby Goojan Quarter where the streets were narrow and the houses close enough together to mask a snurd from the air. By the time their mystery pursuer had regained control and turned round the MK II had disappeared from sight.

The Mervinettes sat in stunned silence as The Pan drove them back to the lock-up.

Pursuit. Right. I’m afraid that we normally all default to car chases, don’t we? Even those of us who write fantasy. Yes, I know there will be the odd (most of us seem to be odd, if I’m being honest) purist who insists on organic creatures – horses, camels, or even dragons. But if, as Richard Bach once remarked in his bestselling book ‘Illusions (the adventures of a reluctant messiah)’ life can be compared to a film, we all have certain scripts in our head. Bond film car chases, The Fast and The Furious, The Terminator films, even The Blues Brothers: car chases appeal and are integral to all the story lines.

Why is this? Well, at some point the authors feel that the tension and drama can be racked up for the audience by having the baddy chase the goody; and indeed vice-versa. Let’s face it, the punters love a good chase, so we all do one don’t we? Not least because a good chase is more fun to write than twenty pages of emotional trauma suffered by the hero/heroine (delete according to taste and preference) as they watch a cockroach climb down a wall beside their bed and compare its faltering descent to their emotional angst. No doubt with insights into the human condition normally reserved for those of a terminally disturbed disposition. Oh, and the readers would rather read a good chase or pursuit too I suspect.

I’m going to offer you two snippets. The first shows my preferred scenario, of my fantasy reality and our own world colliding somewhat awkwardly:

Here, in ‘The Mystic Accountants’, Dai the Dragon has just volunteered to go home to get his guitar before joining The Banned Underground as their bass player. (His reward for getting them a paying gig at a beer festival.)

“I’ll need to get off. It’s not far to the lair, but I don’t like flying in the daylight now. Too much air traffic,” Dai said.

“Are you fit to fly?” asked Fungus, dubiously.

“I’ll be fine. Best hurry, be daybreak any minute, and the RAF start practising at the bombing range at the end of the Country Park early these days. Probably so that the miss hits don’t hit the tourists.”

“Friendly fire, don’t they call that?”

“Have you ever been out for a drink with the cruise missiles? Don’t. A less friendly bunch than that doesn’t exist. Always getting into fights, and then exploding.”

The RAF, however, were wide awake already, and busy on their radios.

“Pen-bre Firing Range, this is Victor Kilo One Six inbound from RAF Valley.”

“Victor Kilo, Pen-bre Range. Go ahead.”

“Pen-bre Range, Victor Kilo is a training flight inbound for Strike Mission, five minutes to run from the East, height 800 feet.”

Now, in this second clip, the ‘baddies’ (in an elderly taxi) are in hot pursuit of the ‘goodies’ (in a Mercedes Sprinter minibus). I’m quite a traditionalist in my writing, you see. So we all know that the ‘goodies’ will get away: the fun comes in seeing how. Also from ‘The Mystic Accountants’.

Lacking a SatNav, the Mondeo slid behind some other vehicles to remain unobtrusive: Ned taking the opportunity of a quick service station break to change its color by magic. Thus avoiding a parking ticket as well.

“The last time yer took this to an MOT station, the staff all ran an’ hid until yer went away,” accused Ned.

“So? Still got me MOT.”

“Only ‘cos you knew how to work their computer,” pointed out the junior.

“Well, what’s the point of training to be an evil wizard if you don’t put the knowledge to good use?”

“Look, they’re turning left,” Ned observed.

“Right.”

“No, left. Yer can’t turn right on a motorway.”

“Can in America,” said the assistant assistant.

“This is England, where we do things right.”

“So it is right.”

“GO LEFT you idiot, before you lose them,” ordered Ned.

“Right.”

“Oh gods, why did I chose you two?”

“Cos the Boss told you to.”

“Right.”

“Not left then?” the assistant assistant, like the reader, was confused.

“Just follow that Sprinter.”

“Thought we were following a minibus? You’re not supposed to run about on motorways.”

For a moment, Ned considered following on foot as a serious idea, but then calmed down as the vehicles passed slowly down the scenic A 483 towards South Wales.

The assistant assistant, driving, was observing the road traffic signs as they progressed.

“Look, all the road signs are in foreign. Perhaps we are in America after all.”

“That’s not foreign. It’s Welsh.” Ned told him.

“Why can’t I understand it then?”

“Look, it was painted by someone called Allan,” said the junior, from the back seat.

“Must be proud of their work, here. Our council wouldn’t let them sign the road.”

“That’s mebbe why we have no road signs,” mused Ned.

A ballistic Honda minivan, horn blaring wildly, encouraged the driver to pay more attention to the road signs as it missed the front of the Mondeo by the width of the new paint job on the bonnet.

“Read the signs, can’t you?” yelled the passenger in the van as his nose skimmed the front of the Mondeo.

The dwarves (and of course Fungus who was a BogTroll) had no difficulties at all with the ancient and poetic language, even when badly painted on the road (by an arthritic road painter who had had to keep dodging cars, tractors and occasional sheep while painting.).

“Araf” said the road, and the Sprinter obeyed. *

“Who’s this Araf?” queried the Mondeo driver.

“He learnt to write in the same place as Allan, anyway,” said the junior.

“Now it says ‘ARAFWCH.’ Wonder what it means?” **

“Maybe you pronounce it ‘ARAF OUCH?’” *** suggested Ned.

Again the Sprinter understood, and obeyed. Accordingly, with only a slight crashing from the rear load space, the Sprinter sped around the corner. The fast moving Mondeo made an existential choice, and carried straight on… through a hedge into a very muddy field.

Fortunately failing to connect with the extremely large tractor, which was towing a low loader up the field. Slowly.

“Made me say OUCH,” grumbled the driver.

“Didn’t you read the signs then?” asked the farmer, chuckling as Ned opened his wallet and started counting out notes while the tractor pulled a now very well disguised Mondeo out of the field. Slowly.

“Must have missed them,” sighed Ned.

“Didn’t miss me hedge though, did you boy?” chuckled the farmer.

“Clearly. Still, we are really grateful, mate.”

“Any time, as long as you bring your wallet.”

The Mondeo shot off in pursuit of the departed Sprinter, showering mud everywhere.

“Come back soon!” called the farmer, before going home to count his subsidies.

* Slow Down. Now.

** If you haven’t already slowed down, this is your last chance. Honest. Before you crash.

*** No. Although you will say “ouch” afterwards, if you didn’t araf in time.

See? Two pages of a car chase are more fun than writing about cockroaches. Got to go, I’m busy writing my next pursuit. This time with broomsticks….

The Mystic Accountants is the second in The Banned Underground fantasy series published by Safkhet Publishing and is used here with their permission

This one I found tricky, not because I don’t do chases, but because in one case the entire book might be considered a chase. Of course a chase should build up tension, you shouldn’t know how it’s going to end, will the pursuers catch their intended prey or will their prey escape?
Over a book you can go into detail, allow the pursers to go off on false trails, almost catch their victim but fail, only to set off again for another go. You have time for character development, budding love affairs and scenes of deep introspection. In a shorter chase you have to keep the pace up, but you can allow humour to creep in round the edges without losing the tension.

So here is a chase from ‘Swords for a Dead Lady’

Seen from the point of view of the book it has several purposes
It introduces Benor to Rothred
It explains why Benor is interested in leaving Toelar
It gives a feel for Toelar and introduces other people who might appear in the story later.
All these things could be done in other ways but this way was more fun.

Benor left his home and closed the door behind him. He didn’t lock it – the Widow Kazmintal would be round soon to disturb the dust and move the furniture. He stepped out briskly, his goal the Scented Salamander, where he had decided to take his midday meal. He had passed the Temple of the Eightfold Alms when he noticed that a small group of men appeared to be following him. He recognised Rontswaller, an elderly merchant, whose young wife Alina Benor had been consoling four nights ago.

He slightly quickened his step and crossed the road, intending to turn off down Musselfair Street to the harbour where at least he would have friends, when he saw, coming the other way, Thestal Carnholm, husband of the beautiful but flirtatious Chianvil. With him were several burly lads from his small glass factory, still wearing their leather aprons. All were carrying cudgels.

Without hesitation Benor turned left down Lead Glass lane, and as it was empty, he broke into a run. Figures blocked the far end of the lane. He went into the first house at random, smiled at the startled practitioner who was giving a client deep tissue massage and darted out of the back door into the yard. Cautiously, he opened the yard gate. There were three toughs lounging against a wall further up the street. He looked round and saw a woman’s hooded cloak hanging on a line to dry. He hastily threw it on and stepped out into the street, turned away from the loungers and walked briskly away, hoping that he would hit Musselfair Street behind Carnholm and his party. Then behind him he heard a shout:

“Come back here with my bloody cloak”.

He didn’t hesitate, but dropped the cloak and ran, the hue and cry starting up behind him. He hit Musselfair Street and swung down to the harbour, not risking a glance behind him. The shouting grew louder.

He heard shouting ahead of him as well, but largely ignored it, concentrating on keeping to the middle of the road and watching for anyone coming in from either side. Out in the harbour he could see his brother’s boat, the Channeler’s Dog, wallowing at anchor, about a hundred yards from the quay. He began to feel that he might just make it. Some of the pursuers were gaining on him, but he intended to run clean off the wharf into the harbour and swim for the boat.
They would have to slow down or end up in the water with him.

His world had contracted to the unfocused shouting and the Channeler’s Dog when suddenly some fool put a horse directly in his path. With no time to turn, he dived under its belly, rolled along the floor and came to an abrupt stop against a pair of riding boots. He gazed upwards; the wearer of the riding boots was an Urlan, a young man, looking battered from hard riding and with one leg bandaged.

“Hello, I am Rothred; I have been told that you are Benor Dorfinngil, also known as Benor the Cartographer. I have a message for you from Lord Eklin.”